


We Sing We Dance We Fall in Love

by ryukoishida



Series: Sing When You're In Love [2]
Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: Idols AU, M/M, idol!Gieve, manager!Farangis, musicians au, singersongwriter!Isfan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 07:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6275428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gieve’s infectious fervour cannot be imitated or mocked; the joy and zeal of music lives in his blood, coursing through his body, and it roars loud and ferocious, demanding attention and thriving on praise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Sing We Dance We Fall in Love

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an anon’s wonderful prompt. Inspired by KENN’s 夜明けの月, or “The Moon at Dawn” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9inLXUee2YA).

His breathing sounds laboured and his steps seem uncharacteristically sluggish when the star of the concert – a young man blessed with an outrageously charming personality as well as a saccharine singing voice – climbs down the staircase in the middle of the stage. The shaking of his legs is almost imperceptible as he plucks the microphone from the stand, but it’s clear – at least to the man sitting by the piano – that he’s definitely not feeling well.

 

He hasn’t mentioned this to anyone prior to the start of the show, however. Of course he hasn’t.

 

“The next song is composed by a fellow musician whom I have high admiration and respect for. Despite the fact that we didn’t see eye-to-eye during our first collaboration, I’m so glad to have met him and worked with him on several projects. So Isfan, my dear friend ––”

 

Gieve turns around with a wide, mischievous grin, jade-green irises glimmering under the spotlight casted upon his figure and highlighting the delicate elfin features of his face, flushed a lovely shade of pink from his previous performance of a series of dance tracks, and his slim frame donned in a ridiculous red and black plaid suit jacket and matching slacks that should not look as delectable as they do.

 

He gazes at the brunet sitting with his spine rod-straight before a sleek, ivory grand piano, fingers softly caressing the surface of the black and white keys with as much revere as he would touch a lover’s face.

 

His back is still angled towards the audience when he continues to murmur into the microphone, “–– you better savour the aforementioned statement because I’m not going to repeat myself again.”

 

The faceless crowd, drowned in a sea of solid black when Gieve turns to face his audience once more, erupts in a chorus of well-timed laughter.

 

The lights dim then, and within that thick darkness and palpable hushed silence as the audience wait with anticipation for the song to begin, Isfan feels warm fingers ghosting along the nape of his neck. His skin tingles like sparks of star fire skipping and scattering in an orderly chaos, and he swallows noisily, teeth snagging at his lower lip when Gieve leans in dangerously close, hot breaths fanning across his cheek.

 

“Gieve, are you alright?” he twists around to whisper by the musician’s ear.

 

Isfan’s heart thrums like a vibrating, singing string of his guitar in this bated silence, and he thinks Gieve can hear his heart beating loud and strong against his ribcage – so much so that it almost hurts to take in a deep breath when the violet-haired singer finally dips his head close enough to leave a fleeting kiss on his temple.

 

“Stop worrying,” he returns, exhale hot and moist against the shell of Isfan’s ear, and steps aside.

 

When the soft glow of blue and white lights gradually brighten the stage, Gieve has already settled in front of the microphone stand in the middle, a slender hand wrapped around the stem of the microphone with his head lowered. Any expression he may have is hidden in the shadow of his bangs that has long required a trim.

 

Isfan doesn’t miss his companion’s slight nod to signify that he’s ready. With graceful, curved fingers poised atop the keyboard, he lets the first series of tinkling notes scatter from the tips of his fingers – like the touch of winter’s first snow falling and melting against wind-chafed cheeks, like a momentary kiss that has ended all too quickly, almost fantastical.  

 

The music reverberates throughout the venue, lush and gentle as waves washing against the shore in the middle of the night, and then Gieve’s husky voice joins in, all luscious smoke and deep bass as his lips and voice shape lyrics into poetry into clarity and perceptible contours in the air.

 

His body sways easily to Isfan’s music, a foot tapping rhythmically and an arm gesturing in graceful arcs as if he’s dancing, a poem of winter’s constellation that transcends time in motion.

 

Audience, attention transfixed solely on the bewitching musician casting a spell from his altar, wields their lit-up phones to the melody: a surge of fluttering luminescence – waltzing fireflies – alive but tender.

 

Behind the piano, Isfan shifts his sharp gaze from the keyboard to the figure swallowed up by the bright light, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he lets Gieve’s saccharine voice washes over him.

 

No matter how crude Gieve may act around his peers at times, or how childish he can get when it comes to certain insignificant matters, or how seemingly charming he is towards his fans – almost to the point of being flirty, to Isfan’s utmost frustration which he rarely expresses – there’s no denying it: from his debut five years ago as part of a much larger idol group which could only be described as mediocre at best, Gieve has worked himself raw until he reaches this point in his career as a solo artist, and his talent shines through in the elegant and fierce movements of his dance performances and the genuine passion and abandon with which he sings.

 

That infectious fervour cannot be imitated or mocked; the joy and zeal of music lives in his blood, coursing through his body, and it roars loud and ferocious, demanding attention and thriving on praise.

 

Isfan can be the first to admit that he had doubts when he was told to collaborate with an idol who had only started going solo a few years ago and had been infamous for being a silver-tongued womanizer. He can also be the first to admit that he despises the idol culture that the Japanese music scene seems to adore and cultivate in the last decade, so having to work with such an irritatingly flamboyant so-called musician was almost unimaginable and just as laughable.

 

But how wrong he had been.

 

When he first saw Gieve fiddling with his guitar as his meticulous fingers effortlessly danced across the fret board and murmuring lyrics to himself, his eyebrows scrunching up comically in concentration – it could almost be considered endearing, that expression – Isfan had thought he’d entered the wrong room at the time. Only when Gieve opened his eyes and finally noticed the auburn-haired singer-songwriter standing, mildly confused, by the doorway of the studio did Isfan’s bubble popped in his face with the first greeting that came out of Gieve’s mouth.  

 

He feels bony, trembling fingers encircling firmly around his wrist and dragging him up from the piano bench, the aging legs of the furniture squeaking as it skids back.

 

The applause and cheering are overwhelming and it’s everything they have hoped for, but Isfan is deaf to it all, blinded by the white light and only becoming hyper-aware of the protective arm wrapped around his shoulders. When the brunet glances down, Gieve looks up with brilliant eyes and flashes him a victorious grin, his hand squeezing his companion’s upper arm reassuringly even as his breathing patterns appears to be strangely erratic after a ballad.

 

Isfan finds himself about to ask the same question again, but the lighting is changing, which signifies his cue to bow and return to the backstage.

 

-

 

“That was a beautiful performance, Isfan.” A woman’s low voice interrupts the turmoil of worry rolling in Isfan’s mind as he watches the show progress from the left wing of the stage.

 

“A-ah, Farangis-san,” Isfan turns with a start to face Gieve’s manager – a fearless woman armed not only with a sort of ethereal beauty that well-surpasses most celebrities, but also gifted with deadly persuasive skills and equally dangerous organizational and marketing abilities. “Thank you, though admittedly ––” he pauses to send her a perturbed smile and only continues when Farangis raises her dark brows with a hint of challenge, “–– it’s difficult to feel completely at ease when the compliment comes from one of the most intimidating managers in our company.”

 

“I see Gieve’s attitude has been rubbing off on you nicely,” Farangis only comments with a light teasing tone, her intense gaze swings back toward to where her charge is performing a fast-paced song with a group of backup dancers.

 

Isfan feels like there’s an underlying meaning to the dark-haired woman’s statement, but he isn’t about to ask.  

 

“Did… did Gieve mention anything about feeling ill at all before this?”

 

The lights dim, drowning the auditorium into utter darkness once more. This will be the last song of the night, though as per tradition, half an hour has been sectioned off for encore.

 

“You’ve noticed?” If anything, Farangis sounds vaguely impressed.

 

Isfan nods, eyebrows drawn in a slight frown as he crosses his arms, the gesture hinting apprehension.

 

“Worried?”

 

“Well I ––” He most certainly is, but Isfan isn’t sure if it’s wise to divulge this particular piece of information to Farangis, of all people.

 

“It’s all right,” Farangis shifts her weight from one leg to the other as she tucks a strand of dark hair behind her ear, a knowing smile growing along the curve of her mouth glossed in velvet red. “I know what’s going on. Gieve may be able to fool me on occasion, but stealth is really not your strongest suit, Isfan.”

 

“We didn’t mean to keep it a secret,” Isfan admits, cheeks heating up as he lifts one hand to rub the back of his neck uneasily, “it’s just, we figured it’d be best to ––”

 

“There’s no need to explain to me,” Farangis turns to look at him, her penetrating gaze not without a trace of amusement. “You two are adults. I trust that you’ll be able to handle this – ah, relationship – in a responsible manner. As long as it doesn’t negatively affect his career, who am I to judge?”

 

After a short moment of shared silence, Isfan wishes to thank the manager for her understanding, but before he can open his mouth, the stage is flooded with bright lights and the venue is filled with enthusiastic cheering again, and Gieve strides out in a simple but refined combination of skinny jeans, a violet button-down shirt that accentuates his willowy stature, and a grey vest.  

 

Something is definitely off.

 

Isfan’s amber eyes harden as he observes the almost imperceptible bow of Gieve’s spine while he makes his way steadily towards the microphone stand; the rosy flush on his cheeks and clammy skin look as if it’s stemmed from a fever rather than from the mere heat of the overhead spotlights.

 

“Farangis-san…”

 

If there’s a tinge of panic in his whisper, neither wishes to acknowledge it.

 

“You know he won’t agree to it.”

 

There’s no way in hell to call off the show at this point in time – it’s already at its climax after all – but as the melody rises and falls, Gieve’s voice, usually filled with such crystal clarity in his enunciation of words painted more poignant by the flawless sweetness of his vocals, is starting to slur into a muddy, messy sludge, leaving a smattering of dirty footprints on the pristine and perfect canvas of what was once a pure, romantic ballad.

 

He’s clawing over the haze to keep his head above the crests upon crests of dizziness and nausea that attempt to drown out his consciousness – Isfan can see him struggle, and gradually falter into cracked voice and sluggish motions, through the song as it nears its end.

 

Somewhere at the back of his mind, despite his absolute belief that his lover will make it through the show until the very end, Isfan thinks he’s been expecting Gieve to fall, but it still comes as a heartbreaking surprise when, with a pained gasp and an arm reaching out only to grasp at nothing, he collapses.

 

The backstage goes into a frenzy of confusion, and the audience is buzzing in bewilderment for a brief few seconds before they, too, start scrambling and shouting in hysterical panic.  

 

Isfan doesn’t wait for the instructions from any of the backstage staff, just dashing out as soon as the technicians have the sense to shut off the light fixtures and the curtain is hastily drawn close; the auditorium is bathed in the usual warm orange glow.

 

“Gieve… Gieve, can you hear me? Oi!”

 

Isfan kneels by the dark-haired musician’s side, a hand softly tapping against his pale cheek to assess his responsiveness as frantic, golden eyes scan for any other possible injuries Gieve may have inflicted upon himself when he fell. The brunet is about to perform CPR – not that he can remember much from his training from a year ago when all he can picture in his blanked-out mind is the current image of his lover, defeated and broken and unbearably frail – but then Gieve is blinking open his eyes heavily as if he’s waking up from a deep slumber.

 

A pink tongue peeks out to swipe at his parched, lower lip and he swallows with difficulty before he focuses his sea-green gaze upon Isfan. His voice is hoarse like crackling of autumn leaves when he speaks.

 

“Wha –– is the show over already? Did I end it with a bang?”

 

The man’s grin loses some of its usual smarminess, and the bruised shadows beneath his eyes reflect sleepless nights and extended hours of practice for the past few weeks. It has clearly taken a toll on his body; he’s only human.

 

“You fainted, asshole.” Despite the insult, Isfan’s tone is filled with an exasperated fondness that he doesn’t even bother to conceal.

 

“That’s no way to talk to a patient, you know?”

 

“If you’re still able to flap your mouth like that, I guess that means you’ll live,” Farangis wanders over, eyes glued to the cellphone in her hand as she expertly taps something into it. Probably updating his Twitter status with an apology or something.

 

“You sound so disappointed, mine most beauteous and lovely Farangis, ace manager and goddess of my life,” Gieve responds with a lighthearted smirk.

 

“Here,” the black-haired manager pointedly ignores Gieve’s sorry attempt of flirting and hands a set of keys to Isfan instead. “Take my car and get out of here before the fans catch on. I’ll need to stay behind to clean up this mess.”

 

Isfan nods his thanks, and after excusing themselves, they make their way to the atomic silver Lexus sedan parked in the underground garage.

 

Once they have settled inside, with Isfan in the driver’s seat and Gieve sitting adjacent to him, a heavy cloud of silence looms over them.

 

The violet-haired singer glances over at his companion, and sees the small frown etched between his brows and restless fingers drumming on the steering wheel while the soft rumble of the vehicle fills in the stifled silence between them.

 

With a shaking hand, he covers Isfan’s slightly bigger one. He freezes.

 

“What’s the matter?”

 

“Why didn’t you tell anyone that you’re sick?”

 

The original question had been: ‘Why didn’t you tell _me_?’ But Isfan figures what comes after that might not go over so well.

 

With a frustrated sigh, Isfan leans over to brush back the other man’s forelocks and place his palm against his forehead. “You’re burning!”

 

“I took some medication before the start of the show,” Gieve murmurs defensively, and attempts to swat Isfan’s hand away with little success. “It wasn’t as if I was on my death bed or anything serious like that; I might not be in my best shape, but I knew I was still able to perform, so there was no need to disappoint everyone who had already purchased the tickets to support me, right? Despite what you might think, I don’t take my idol status for granted.”

 

That jab is uncalled for, and they both know it.

 

“I never thought you were taking anything for granted, Gieve!” Isfan swivels sharply to face him, amber eyes burning as he snaps at him, and Gieve pushes his back against the car seat, startled into momentary muteness. “I just ––” He chews his lower lip as he pauses, jaw clenched tight, and Gieve feels his lover’s fingers beneath his gripping on the steering wheel so hard they’re turning bone-white.

 

Gieve draws soothing circles on the back of the brunet’s hand with his thumb – a gentle reminder.

 

“Just?” he urges in a lower register.

 

“I just wish you’d depend on me more often,” Isfan mutters, turning his head to the side as his face reddens with the unexpected declaration, and his next words are softer, “especially during times like this.”

 

“I thought I could handle this well enough on my own – I always have in the past – so I didn’t want to cause you any trouble,” Gieve explains, prying his lover’s fingers away from the steering wheel and pulls his hand towards himself, his mouth hovering just slightly over Isfan’s knuckles as his timid gaze lifts to meet the brunet’s. “I… didn’t want you to be worried.”

 

“And look where that got us, huh?” Isfan chuckles, a weak attempt to lighten up the tense atmosphere, but seeing his smile seems to have done the trick because Gieve’s fingers tighten marginally around Isfan’s hand.

 

Without a word, he slips his hand out of Gieve’s hold only to place it against his feverish cheek.

 

Gieve’s eyes flutter close at the tender touch, parted lips releasing a soft, contented breath, and Isfan can’t help but lean in close to kiss him – just a small peck on his chapped lips.

 

“Don’t pull something like this again. You hear me?”

 

“Only if you promise to nurse me back to health,” Gieve teases, and adds with a sly grin, “in that Nurse Witch Komugi-chan cosplay I got for you last Halloween.”

 

“Not happening,” Isfan rolls his eyes as he pulls the handbrake and backs out from the parking space, “and you’d better shut that mouth of yours before I dump your nauseous ass into the awaiting jaws of your hungry fans outside.”

 

“You’re merciless, darling. Just merciless.”  

 

Gieve laughs, feeling a little better already.

**Author's Note:**

> Can you tell I wasn’t even trying at the ending anymore? I’m sorry. I tried. Hope y’all enjoyed it!


End file.
